Love
The Word Burger is Confusing
"The end," I said. I cleared the game board off the coffee table and began to pack my bags. "I hate when people say 'the end'. It's so final and overdramatic," said Cynthia. "You know 'thee' is another way of saying 'you' in Middle English, right?" she asked. I bristled at the smug look on her face. "Are you trying to end me? Seems kinda hateful..." she said.
By A. S. Lawrence6 months ago in Fiction
Invitation. Honorable Mention in Something Is Beginning, I Think Challenge. Top Story - March 2026.
The invitation was elegant for all its simplicity: The management & staff of “the Epicure” are hopeful that you might grace us with your presence as we celebrate the completion of our recent renovations at the Skyview Tower.
By Randy Wayne Jellison-Knock6 months ago in Fiction
The Fae King. Top Story - March 2026.
It began with a girl. Black-haired and sweet and gone too soon. It is the way of mortals to die, of course. Most pass within a few decades, unless they can be tempted away to fairyland and persuaded to stay there. Even then, mortals live only as long as they can go without visits to friends or family that allow time and the weight of years to catch up to them.
By Natasja Rose6 months ago in Fiction
Tony's Wedding Toast
"I’m toasting this couple, who met years ago. Lindsay was underage, so it’s good that Brent went off to graduate school. We know there’ve been ups and downs, quite a roller coaster, but love conquered all. Brent got down on one knee and placed that enormous emerald on Lindsay’s chubby finger. What? She had pregnancy fluid retention. I’m a jeweler; I’ll resize it, free. First, Lindsay Ceriddo is smart, funny, and sweet. So weird to attach Brent’s surname to Lindsay. Raise glasses! Second, Brent is an okay provider. Third, Baby Ceriddo, all the best to you when you pop out."
By Andrea Corwin 6 months ago in Fiction
Lap Cat. Honorable Mention in Something Is Beginning, I Think Challenge. Top Story - March 2026.
My nose is dripping, and Delia is tracing her fingers through my hair. Her husband is shirtless by the microwave, heating up leftovers from New Year's Eve. In 60 seconds, I'll be shoving mouthfuls of risotto between my quivering lips like a child and picking at semi-stale dinner rolls. Then, I'll pass my plate to one of their three Tabby cats (whom I can never tell apart) and let him/her/them (?) lick it clean.
By Erin Latham Shea6 months ago in Fiction
Beneath the Blood-Red Sky
Dearest Count, I am afraid to tell you that I will not be able to fulfil my duties. I had thought I would kneel at your feet as you darkened the bright city lights of London with your terror, feasting upon the crimson sustenance so readily offered by wench and gentleman alike.
By Paul Stewart6 months ago in Fiction
The Cartographer of Lost Loves. AI-Generated.
Vera Matsuki had spent three years mapping places that no longer existed. Not physically—these locations still stood, their coordinates unchanged—but emotionally, temporally, they'd been erased from the collective consciousness. The abandoned drive-in theater outside Tulsa. The shuttered roller rink in Providence where someone's grandmother had met someone's grandfather in 1952. The pier in Galveston that Hurricane Ike had half-demolished in 2008, leaving it suspended between existence and memory.
By Alpha Cortex6 months ago in Fiction
Where Magic
Mrs. Periwinkle plucked a ripe apple from the tree and tossed it in her basket. She took the apples and headed inside. She mashed up a couple of apples and concocted her own apple cider. Next, she sat under her apple tree and read from her book of poetry. The bluebirds in the sky chirped their happy songs for her. Her brawny husband Sam came into sight. He waved at her and smiled warmly. “Greetings my love,” he said. “How do you do my sweet,” she asked. “Labor is long and hard but seeing your face makes it all worthwhile,” he confessed. “Your flattery knows no bounds,” Mrs. Periwinkle said. He bent down and kissed her cheek.“You make me blush as if I was a school girl again,” she confessed. From her crystal ball watched a woman equally as beautiful as Lorna Periwinkle. However, she is ugly in her heart. She grimaced as she watched this mushy scene. She turned to her pet raven named Midnight and said,“Don’t it make you sick?” “Someone’s jealous?” Midnight retorted. Storm, the witch’s black cat rubbed against her leg. The witch was named Sienna Cedar. She bent down and petted her cat. “Why can’t you be sweet like Storm?” she asked. “He’s only nice to you because you feed him,” Midnight squawked. “Can I eat the bird now?” Storm asked licking his lips. “You wouldn’t dare, tuna breath,” Midnight said. “Graveyard lurcher,” Storm shot back. “That’s enough you two,” Sienna said. “we’re a family; we shouldn’t fight.” The cat and the raven grumbled.
By DJ Robbins6 months ago in Fiction
"I Can't Catch My Voice"
It did not begin with a clear diagnosis. It began with a sweet memory of her. Her mental illness arrived slowly enough that, at first, it seemed like ordinary aging. She misplaced things. She repeated a question she had asked only minutes before. We laughed sometimes with kind intent, the usual way families do when something petty goes obviously wrong. It was comfortable then to believe that nothing serious had begun.
By Lori Armstrong6 months ago in Fiction
